NaNoWriMo 2006 novel. Writing 50,000 words in 30 days. Quality may suffer.
Chapter 3 ' The Pale Gentleman From Rhode Island
By the time he had checked in and unpacked the matter of lunch pressed heavily on Montague's mind and he descended from his room to the bar where they served him a beer and a portion of pork chops and fried potatoes that was so generous he found himself, uncharacteristically, unable to complete it. He had brought with him his copies of Pabodie's papers with the intention of walking down to the library and seeing what he might be able to find out, but the heat and the large meal took all the energy out of him and instead he settled down with his pipe. He took a copy of the New York times, and, being unfamiliar with the layout of the newspaper, felt himself obliged to read it cover to cover. He was unsurprised to see nothing about the murder at sea, doubtlessly that had reached the news service too late. He made a mental note to pick up the evening editions if possible, he was anxious to make sure his name had been left out of the matter.
The domestic news was largely unfamiliar to him, the incidents which were the incidents of life the world over, the murders, the marriages, the posturing of politicians, he read diligently and tried his best to absorb despite being unfamiliar with the names and places, the other items that concerned subjects of ongoing national importance, the Federal Reserve Act which seemed to garner much comment, left him feeling lost. He paid far more attention to the international news, especially any news from England. There was little from the continent at all apart from a small report concerning the assassination of the Austrian Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo, the article was slight and thin on detail and had the feel of something copied straight from the wire service. Montague searched for any more details but found none. 'Important news for the Austrians,' he muttered to himself, 'not for the Americans.'
He was interrupted by a hotel porter who asked if he was Mister Montague Rhodes James.
'I am.'
'There is a gentleman in the lobby to see you sir, a mister Lovecraft. Shall I show him through?'
'Lovecraft?' said Montague, 'means nothing to me. Oh hold on, is he a pale young chap?'
'He is sir.'
'Ah. The mysterious H.P.L. Please, show him though.'
The porter left and returned with a slight framed, thin lipped, serious looking young man in an old fashioned suit. Montague folded and put down his newspaper and rose to shake the young man's hand. It was a disappointing, limp, handshake.
'Montague James,' he said, 'please take a seat.'
'Howard Lovecraft,' said the man, taking a moment to choose between the two empty chairs at the table before sitting neatly down with his back straight and his hands clasped together in his lap.
'Would you care for a drink?' asked Montague, 'I've been on the beer but it's a little early and I thought I might try the lemonade which I'm told is very refreshing, the heat is quite something isn't it?'
'Just water,' said Lovecraft.
'Very well,' said Montague, and called over a waiter, 'I gather you're a fan of my stories?'
'Hardly something as mundane as a fan Mister James,' began Lovecraft and then stopped when the waiter arrived and Montague ordered the drinks.
'Ice in the water, sir?' asked the waiter.
'No thank you,' said Lovecraft, giving a tiny, involuntary, shiver.
'You were saying,' said Montague once the waiter left.
'I was saying,' said Lovecraft, 'that I am hardly just a fan of your stories, I am a man who has seen them for what they really are, I am a fellow traveller.'
'I'm sorry, a what?'
'A fellow traveller Mister James, a man like yourself.'
'I heard you but I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean, it must be an American phrase. You must excuse me.'
'Sir, do not make me spell it out.'
'Spell what out?'
The young man grimaced and wrung his hands together, his posture, poised intently on the edge of the chair contrasted strongly with that of Montague James who lounged comfortably at a slight angle, one leg crossed over the other. Montague watched the young man struggle to find the words, his first impression had been one of slight repulsion, Lovecraft's pallid clammy complexion and brittle demeanour had struck him as rather prim, but there was something about him Montague could not quite put his finger on, the young man was obviously nervous, but being nervous was no crime, no, there was a weight to his formality, an unnaturalness to it, as if he were being forced into it by matters too important to be treated with a light touch of any kind.
'Spell out, Mister James, that everything you have published as fiction, is fact.'
Montague reeled a little at the accusation, pausing with his pipe held just a fraction of an inch from his lips. 'I am terribly sorry but that simply is not the case.'
'Please do not make yourself look foolish by denying it,' said Lovecraft, 'I have done my research, I know of what I speak.'
'Then I must counter your research with my experience, on occasion I write ghost stories in, I hope, the grand tradition of ghost stories, to amuse my friends. They are nothing more than stories, I should know, I wrote them.'
'Please,' said Lovecraft, 'your story Cannon Alberic's Scrapbook alludes not to a Cannon Alberic but a Cannon Boudrealt from Marseilles, the similarities in the cases are too strong to ignore, your story entitled The Mezzotint obviously refers to a case at a house in Shropshire, not Essex as stated, there are other differences but the theft of the child, and the strange matter of the picture, are public record for those who look hard enough. Even those of us who have to enact our researches by proxy from across the Atlantic. Sometimes, if I may say so, at great expense.'
Montague leaned forward, rested his pipe on the table, and clasped his hands together. 'My dear boy,' he said, 'what you believe is the truth that I have concealed, is nothing more than my inspiration. The similarities too strong to ignore are the failings of my creativity, where I have simply transposed details from the events that first roused my imagination.'
'There is one more thing that convinces me.'
'And what is that?'
'That I know the things you write of to be so.'
'By which you mean ghosts?'
'Ghosts, yes, all manner of the supernatural.'
'Well,' said Montague, 'it would be hubris for me to deny that ghosts exist, for all I know they may well exist, but I sincerely doubt if my guesswork has described them correctly.'
'Hubris, sir,' said Lovecraft, 'I had tried not to think that of you. Why, I pondered for these past years, ever since I realised the truth, does Mister James publish his tales as fiction when they are obviously fact? I have tried to think the best of you, to think that you were protecting the innocent, but now I see you were only protecting your reputation in a cynical deluded world. And in the process keeping it cynical and keeping it deluded when you had the power to open its eyes. Do not talk to me of hubris sir, yours is the worst kind, the kind that thinks it is doing right when really it is self serving to the highest degree. Well I must tell you that there are far worse horrors in the universe than can be found in your English graveyards.'
Lovecraft collapsed back into his seat breathing heavily and stared coldly at Montague, the young man was shaking with rage and emotion.
'I am sorry,' he said, his voice cracking, 'I forgot myself. I have lost a friend and hoped you might help.'
'I will help if I can,' said Montague, 'of course, but I am afraid you are very much mistaken about my stories.'
Lovecraft said nothing, just leaned forward to pick up his glass of water from the table and took a long drink.
